21 Gun Salute
by Saint Mirror
Summary: Seemingly on the edge of insanity and battle fatigue, Doc Roe does some hard thinking one night in Bastogne. Rated for gore.


Disclaimer: I don't own this...or anything really

21 Gun Salute

The frigid air froze in Eugene Roe's lungs. He was past shivering, long past. He felt absolutely nothing no matter how hard he tried, but all the emotions attributed to humanity had frozen hard in his heart.

This night – he had no idea what day of the month it was or if it were even night as all color had dulled to him so it could easily be day; all light desperately pale in contrast to blaring blood – he lay alone in some half-dug foxhole covered partially by a too thin army-issued blanket. All around him were the sounds of whispered curses and movement from Easy Company: his men, those who's lives he daily tried and failed to save; their guardian angel.

'_Angel…' _The word brought to mind a prayer, a distant memory from humid Louisiana nights in living swamps, his grandma reciting it fervently in hopes of patience.

"Lord, make me an instrument of your peace…"

That was a word he no longer knew the meaning of. He only had faint recollections of lazy days spent in bayous; days and memories buried under layers of dirt and bloodied hands and the tears and screams – so many screams – of "medic!" ringing in his ears. Being an instrument that was something he knew all too well. His hands, his voice –soothing those anguished soldiers as bullets whizzed by -, his body; all nothing but an instrument, a shield protecting those who needed him.

A body that was so numb the snow blowing in his face didn't make him flinch. His fingers twisted around themselves as his mind sought some way to escape the cold his body no longer felt; seeking his home in any way he could.

"…where there is hatred…let me sow love…"

He thought he did that. After all that's why they were here wasn't it? To stop the hatred the Nazis had sown? To bring an end to all the bigotry that was rife in Germany and help them start anew? Wasn't the countless deaths of the soldiers a testament of their love for peace? Or just a demonstration of their intolerance, their love for carnage.

"…where there is injury…pardon…"

As if he were there again, he could feel the blood running through his fingers as he tried to pretend the wound the poor replacement had received wasn't as bad as it really was and to quickly bandage it while dragging the man away – more boy than man looking at him like he was God when all he was, was a tired, scared Cajun who'd rather be anywhere but there with his fingers plugged in the boy's body – and ignoring whatever officer was urging him to hurry up.

"…where there is doubt…faith…"

All of Easy Company was filled with doubt, from the lowest private to Captain Nixon who always seemed to take things in a playfully sarcastic light. How could he, a – in his estimation – lowly medic, ever give faith to those so steeped in doubt? His grandma, she would have been able to give them faith. She would have the courage to sit by the men when they gathered. She would not have sat to the side like he does; too afraid to truly befriend them but even more fearful that he wouldn't be there when they would need him the most.

"…where there is despair…hope…"

They all knew him as the brooding Doc Roe; made all the more brooding by war. They'd all heard the story of how he'd yelled at Captain Winters and Harry Welsh the night Moose was shot, and most didn't dare aggravate the guy in charge of the morphine, so how could he give them hope when they all avoided him in this manner?

His fingers subconsciously tightened; twisted into fists and unraveled and bonded together in strange patterns. His knuckles popped, going off like a muffled machine gun in the distance. His eyes locked on the trees, seeing everything and nothing all in one glance. His breath billowed out in front of him, shading the reality around him for moments before fading away. Fading away into nothing like the lives of so many others.

"…where there is darkness…light…"

The fresh snow always shone so brightly in the dim light underneath the bristled arms of the trees, and the men of Easy Company grew used to its surreal glow. He had never seen snow before joining the paratroopers; had been raised in the muggy warmth of the south, and he's thought the winters down there were cold. The chill of Louisiana had only brushed him fleetingly, like the touch of an illicit lover. Here the cold gripped him in a cold iron fist, unwilling to release him to his beloved bayous. There was so much darkness shrouded in the snow glow. Darkness that held thrall even over the steadfast Captain Winters. He could bring no light here.

"…where there is sadness…joy…"

There was no joy left in him, only an all-consuming urge to not let the Company down. All the smiles – even the half-smiles done around a cigarette – were a mask. A cover so that none of them would know how far he was sliding into icy impassiveness. Or no…not impassiveness – that would assume he'd chosen not to feel and there was nothing voluntary about what he felt – it was a death, a murder. All that he'd been before was slowly being killed under the pines of Bastogne. All that defined him, that kept him alive, was his commitment to the Company. Nothing else.

"…Lord, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console…"

Not so distant memories that seemed a lifetime away materialized before him: pulling shrapnel out of men, smiling reassuringly and murmuring soothing nothings as he injected morphine into twitching limbs.

"…to be understood, as to understand…"

What did he understand besides the diagrams of human anatomy that now flickered across his mind's eye, seamlessly taking the place of bloody limbs thrashing, splattering blood, sweat, tears and torment across his hands and face; rolling like a movie reel through his conscious and consuming his sight until nothing mattered except escape from blood and misery.

"…to be loved, as to love…"

He loved with all his heart. He could feel the love surging through him every time he dragged a man off the line. Could see the evidence dried under his nails and taste it in the way the taste of blood never left him. He loved them all too much to let them go without what help he could give them. His love like a little flame melting the ever-growing ice inside him.

"…for it is in giving that we receive…"

He was too tired to snort in disbelief or he would have. Most people gave and gave and gave and received nothing in return except pain and tears and betrayal. Only those living charmed lives got back what they gave. Everyone knew that.

"…it is in pardoning, that we are pardoned…"

Snow fell gently on the top of his helmet and blanket, weighing him down. The snow of Bastogne wanted to press him into the ground. The wind whispered deceptively soothing words in French: _'Go ahead, Eugene, let the snow blanket you in cold warmth; let our arms enfold you forever. There is no need for forgiveness here…' _He couldn't listen; he wouldn't listen to it. The wind had been talking to him since they'd come here, whispering words it knew would get to him most: _'Come on, little Cajun, lay down with us…' _But no, his guilt would not allow him rest, would not allow sleep until he'd atoned for the lives he hadn't saved. He sometimes he feared he would never rest again.

"…it is in dying-" _'Dying…'_

His throat was dry, but he swallowed anyway.

"…it is in dying…that we are born to eternal life."

Eternal life, he'd heard that phrase many times. Back in Carentan he remembered – so vividly it felt now more real than present reality – working next to a priest. Doing his best to keep men alive while the Father trailed after him, chasing him with prayers and whispered words of absolution to the dead.

He sighed and shifted, and all of a sudden the woods that had seemed so deadly quiet were now filled with sound: he could hear Buck, Bill and Joe Toye laughing and talking somewhere behind him; could feel Speirs prowling the line like a lion protecting his pride and could see Lipton walking from foxhole to foxhole asking his usual question about Dike.

The immediate sound of crunching snow brought his eyes upward to see Babe hop into his miserable excuse for a foxhole.

"It's cold as hell, Doc. Let's go get some food to warm us up, okay?" Roe allowed Babe to pull him up and followed him to a semi-large circle of men with a small fire in the middle of them. The meager glow of the cook fire was as a blaze to him, and he felt his heart slowly begin to thaw out. Babe pushed a cup full of beans into his hands, and this action, this unconscious caring, made him smile. He lifted his face to Heaven.

"Amen."


End file.
